The plump old waitress is caustic, screaming from behind the counter. Her heaving stomach violently juggles her saggy breasts back and forth; grocery bags of runny jell-o. We fly out the doors of the restaurant.
I head left out into the city. Sam grabs my shoulder, swinging me back in the direction of the car. Our feet rapidly drum out a breakneck beat. Pak-pak-pak-pak, turn, pak-pak-pak-pak, pak-pak-pak-pak, pak-pak-pak-pak. Minds and bodies shaking and burning.
Water, saturated with the piss and vomit of the drunks and hobos, flies out from under our feet. Past light posts, past street signs. Past trash cans and doorways. Down alleys. Under bridges. Back as far as we can into the safety of the shadows.
We finally stop behind a darkened office building; sucking, spitting, clambering for air. My lungs feel limp. My legs feel worse.
I look over at Sam. His face is beet red and he’s gasping for air. I try to hold it in, but can’t. I start to laugh but end up coughing.
Sam tries to talk as he’s still struggling for breath, “What, did, you, do? What the fuck, is your, problem, man? What the, fuck, were you thinking, back there?”
What could I say? A lie? Come up with some stupid, bullshit fucking excuse that would make what I’d done seem rational? Probably not.
Fuck it. He’d know. I wasn’t in any state to think clearly, anyway.
I could feel him staring at me.
“Well?”
Back in the diner I may have lost it. Just a little bit. Maybe. Not much seems to end well these last few days. Not much will.
*To find the other parts of this story/some other stories, click on the tag "Story" near the bottom of this post.
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